


Twenty-four Hours, One Conversation

by flaming_muse



Series: Reality Bends [5]
Category: Angel: the Series
Genre: April Showers Challenge, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-04-02
Updated: 2008-04-02
Packaged: 2017-10-18 10:11:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/187793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flaming_muse/pseuds/flaming_muse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So there's a new member of the Wyndam-Pryce/the Bloody household...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Twenty-four Hours, One Conversation

**Author's Note:**

> set after all of Reality Bends plus "The Thought that Counts" and "First Christmas," earlier stories in the series
> 
> for wesleysgirl
> 
> Originally posted on April 2, 2008.

Spike awoke slowly to the very pleasant and by now familiar feeling of being pressed up against Wesley's back, soaking in his warmth and presence. Dropping a kiss onto the nape of Wesley's neck, he took a slow breath in through his nose and held it, keeping his eyes closed. He was dimly aware that the gash he had got on his thigh the night before wasn't quite healed and that there was sunlight edging around the window shades, but he ignored them; he was happy where he was.

Although in general he saw no point in getting up, one part of him disagreed rather fervently, and his half-hard cock slid with interest against Wesley's bare buttocks as Spike curled more closely around him. With a little murmur of approval at the idea of a nice shag before sleeping in, he kissed Wesley's neck again as he gently rubbed his hand over Wesley's stomach.

"Mmm," Wesley breathed, leaning back into him.

"Good morning, pet," Spike murmured in return, slipping his hand lower to skim along Wesley's thighs. He placed a series of delicate bites along Wesley's shoulder.

Wesley gave a sleepy chuckle. "It certainly is good so far. Or are you just hungry this morning?"

"Hungry for you," Spike said, the words warm with laughter at the more than obvious reply. Still, he bit down gently on the side of Wesley's throat and got a nice shiver for his troubles. His erection throbbed with a rush of answering arousal.

"Well, then - " Wesley flexed his hips, rubbing against Spike's erection. " - perhaps we should -"

The journey of Spike's hand toward Wesley's cock and Wesley's sentence itself were cut off by a ear-piercing meow and the arrival of an eight-pound, ginger-haired beast on top of them.

"Bloody hell!" Spike tried to keep the cat's paws - with their sharp claws only separated from his skin by a thin sheet - from landing someplace painful, which forced him to pull away from the warm human he wanted to be much closer to. "Worst idea I ever had."

"That's not fair," Wesley said, rolling onto his back and scratching the cat's head as she climbed up onto his chest with an air of satisfaction. "She simply wants our attention. Iris loves us."

Spike's frown deepened. "Iris?"

Not meeting his eyes, Wesley cleared his throat and said, "She's the Greek goddess of the rainbow. I was trying it out as a name."

"I can think of some colors I want to turn her," Spike muttered. "Like black and blue." He squinted at the cat. "Iris sounds like an old biddy with a walker."

"It's classical. Mythological, historical."

"Why not Pestilence? It's historic. You know, the four horsemen and all."

"First off, in our line of work it's probably best _not_ to invoke one of the harbingers of the apocalypse," Wesley said with a vague air of annoyance. "Secondly, she's hardly a highly contagious disease."

"Don't know about that, pet. You can't keep her out of even the smallest spaces, and she did have fleas. Could be carrying the bubonic plague right this very second. We should have her quarantined, just to be sure."

"Spike." The cool way Wesley said his name made Spike flop onto his own back. "You may not be pleased with your gift for me, but _I_ am quite fond of her."

"I've only got a problem with her when she gets in the way of what I want to do with you."

The cat sat down on Wesley's stomach and leaned into his long, talented fingers, which were - unfortunately, to Spike's way of thinking - busy scratching beneath her chin instead of being put to better use. Her eyes were closed, and Spike wouldn't have needed supernatural senses to be able to hear her purrs.

"We can do that any time," Wesley said, and Spike managed somehow not to point out that they weren't doing it _right then_ , "and she's still learning to trust us. If she's seeking out attention I think we should give it to her. She needs to know we'll take care of her."

Spike snorted softly but didn't say anything else, since Wesley was smiling soppily at the cat kneading his stomach like he'd tamed some mythical beast. It was in many ways precisely the sort of response Spike had wanted from his gift, something to make Wesley feel happy and loved, but now that he was seeing it first-hand it was rather more difficult than he had expected to have to watch that smile focused on someone other than himself.

Still, the cat was there, and Wesley was delighted with her. Spike didn't have the heart to ruin it.

"Not calling her Iris," he muttered and reached out to pat her soft fur.

*

"I've got the perfect name," Spike said a few hours later as he hastily ducked behind a massive barrel in the huge, dim warehouse. Dust was thick in the air, muffling their voices, but the gun's report was still plenty loud as a bullet whizzed overhead.

"Spike does seem to suit you," Wesley agreed. He sounded distracted, which probably wasn't a surprise as he was attempting to avoid being targeted by the very same gunman he was trying to get a clear shot at. Gunman was perhaps the wrong word; with all of the tentacles and the five glowing eyes gun-demon was more accurate.

Spike shook his head, though Wesley wasn't looking at him. "Not for me. For the cat."

"What?" Wesley's eyes flicked over to him and then back to survey the space around them. His gun didn't waver in his hands.

"The cat. You know, that little fuzzy creature that stopped us from having a nice shag this morning? The shag that might've kept us in bed a few hours longer, which would've kept us from breaking into this warehouse right when the guards were walking out in a big group for their coffee break."

A volley of shots rang out way too close over their heads, and Spike instinctively pushed Wesley down between him and the metal barrel.

"Is this really the time?" Wesley asked in a quiet, tense voice, fighting to sit up. Spike listened to the silence around them for a second, trying to gauge if there would be more shooting, before letting Wesley right himself.

"For coffee?"

"For naming the cat."

Spike shrugged, hearing a scrabbling noise to their left and quickly dismissing it as a rat moving about. "It just came to me."

"Really. Our cat's name came to you in this dirty, demon-filled warehouse." Wesley's eyes narrowed at something across the room, and his finger tightened on the trigger, but he didn't fire. "I can't wait to hear it."

He did have to wait, because just then there was an almost deafening roar as a giant rat demon lunged out from between the shelves and bowled Spike off of his feet. Long teeth snapped in front of Spike's eyes, and he threw what little finesse he had to the wind and kneed the rat where it counted.

The next few seconds were a whirlwind of fists and fangs, his and the demon's, respectively. They rolled on the dusty cement floor, Spike landing blows where he could and trying to dodge a set of sharp teeth that put his own to shame. It took all of his strength to keep them from digging straight into his throat. He could see Wesley trying to get a good angle for a shot, but they were too tangled up together for him not to risk hitting Spike in the process.

Finally Spike got his feet under himself and used the leverage to flip the rat into the side of a forklift. The demon slumped to the ground, stunned, and he rushed in and snapped its neck with a satisfying, meaty crunch.

"We have to move," said Wesley, lowering his gun and looking around them. "We've given away our position."

"Nancy," Spike announced. He straightened his coat.

Wesley turned on him, his eyes wide at the insult. "I beg your pardon?"

"Nancy," Spike repeated. "For the cat."

Wesley unwound a bit but continued to stare at him. "You want to call the cat Nancy."

"Yeah."

"And you decided that just a minute ago."

"Yeah," Spike said.

"I'm not certain I want to know why."

"You with a gun. Gun. Pistol. Sex Pistols. Sid Vicious. Sid and Nancy. Nancy!"

"We are not naming the cat after a punk rock band," Wesley said. "Besides, it hardly suits her."

"Nancy wasn't _in_ the band," Spike told him.

"No."

"But - "

"Absolutely not, Spike," Wesley said. "Now, let's go."

*

The mid-afternoon sunlight was slowly creeping across the floor of the tiny room, right toward Spike's toes. He and Wesley had been locked away for at least an hour, having dodged the coffee-drinking guards only to be overpowered and disarmed later on by the demon boss's flunkies when they went to investigate his office. They'd been tossed in this storage room for safe-keeping, though with the sun's rays illuminating the otherwise dingy room through a not-dirty-enough barred skylight if they didn't come back soon the flunkies would have only have kept one of their prey safe.

Spike was crammed in the last corner of shade, pressed up against the wall in a vain attempt to get even just a single millimeter further away from the ever-approaching warm golden death heading his way. He was fairly certain the pattern of the bricks was imprinted in his leather jacket, but as he'd be dust fairly soon - as would the jacket - he supposed it didn't really matter.

"If you don't like names from mythology, how about one from art?" Wesley said from where he was kneeling by the lock of the door. He'd been there for a long while, and Spike knew his knees had to be hurting. Still, he appreciated the effort, especially since his own attempts to kick the door down had ended up with him being singed around the edges and the thick, reinforced door being entirely unharmed.

"What?" Spike asked.

"If you don't like names from mythology for the cat, perhaps we could settle on one from art." Wesley's voice was tight as he worked at the lock with a few bits of wire, and Spike could see his desperation to get the door open in every tense muscle in his body. Wesley was clearly trying to distract himself from the enormous pressure on him to keep Spike, well, not alive, but as close as he was going to get.

"I suggested Nancy," Spike said, going for casual. He could feel the tingle of reflected sunlight on his skin; he usually enjoyed the buzz, but he wasn't so happy with it right then.

"Punk rock isn't exactly the sort of art I was suggesting."

"At least you agree that it's art." If nothing else, opening up Wesley's mind to such things would be Spike's lasting impact on him, he thought morbidly.

"Of a sort."

"So - what? You want to name her Picasso?"

Wesley made a little thinking sound, and Spike could almost have laughed if the situation hadn't been so dire. "No," Wesley said. "She should have a female name."

"Like Na-"

"Not Nancy."

"Kahlo, then," Spike said.

"I find her paintings disturbing." Wesley bit his bottom lip for a moment as he twirled one wire between his fingers.

"I kind of like them; all her insides on the outside."

Wesley glanced over at him, the barest hint of a smile shaping his mouth. "Yes, I can see why that would appeal to you. Nonetheless, not a good name for our cat." He went back to work.

"What's your idea?"

"Hmm? Bloody rusted tumblers; they ought to keep these locks in better repair," Wesley muttered.

Spike considered how much longer he had before he'd have to take off his coat and put it over himself like a tent. He decided he'd wait a little while longer; he'd rather be able to see and hear. "I'll be sure to write that on the comment card for the staff."

Wesley huffed out a soft laugh and continued to attack the lock. After a few more minutes he spoke again. "Perhaps one of the Impressionists? Berthe Morrisot or Mary Cassatt?"

"You want to name the cat Bertha or Mary?" Spike edged his feet back the last half-inch; his toes were still beginning to feel uncomfortably hot.

"Berthe," Wesley corrected him. "It's French."

"Well, that makes all the bloody difference."

"I would think it does."

"I'm not living with a cat named Bertha."

"Right now it hardly seems to be a likely possibility you'll be living with a cat of any name," Wesley said. He sat back on his heels and flexed his fingers, giving Spike a bleak look. His jaw was still set with determination, but his eyes were dark and miserable.

They stared at each other for a long, helpless moment.

"It's all right, pet," Spike said softly. "If I don't. It's nothing to do with you. Just wasn’t my day. Or _was_ my day, depending on how you look at it."

Wesley's mouth flattened to an even thinner line, and he shook his head. "It's _not_ all right," he said and turned back to the door. "Not in the slightest."

Spike wished he could reach out to him without going up in flames, but since he wanted to stave off the seemingly inevitable for as long as possible he kept his hands safely inside his sleeves. His fingers itched to take over the lock-picking, but in the direct sunlight he'd be dust long before he could get the door open.

Minutes ticked by as Wesley worked at the lock. Spike could see a few drops of sweat beginning to bead at his temple, and Wesley's harsh breaths were loud in the small room. It sounded like he was running a race faster and faster with each passing second.

"I love you," Spike told him, because whatever happened he needed to say it. Glancing at the window, he swallowed down a lump threatening to form in his throat. "Even if you have bloody awful taste in names for cats." His skin was itching, and it wouldn't be long before it started to smoke.

Wesley made a choked noise in the back of his throat, but he didn't even look at Spike. He just kept twirling the wires with the intense concentration he called up for the most serious of tasks. Usually it had to do with an apocalypse, but this disaster was closer to home for both of them.

Suddenly there was a soft click, and Wesley took a deep breath and turned the handle on the door. It opened, and without hesitating a moment he grabbed Spike's arm and pulled him through the flood of sunlight into the relative safety of the shady hallway beyond.

Fortunately there were no guards posted, and the two of them stood there dumbly for a moment staring at each other, Wesley's hand still gripping Spike's forearm hard enough to hurt. Spike didn't know what to say or do to ease the panic and relief in Wesley's eyes, so he did what came naturally.

"Besides," he said with a slight waver in his voice, "Bertha's a cow's name."

*

"Now that's more like it," Spike said as he pushed Wesley against the back of the closed bathroom door. He fisted his hand in Wesley's hair and brought their mouths together in a bruising kiss. They both needed showers after a long day of fighting and nearly getting killed multiple times, but Spike was very much looking forward to the part where they got to get their clothes off first.

Wesley seemed just as eager, if the way he was kissing Spike back and yanking his shirt out of his jeans was any indication. His movements were fierce, setting Spike's body on fire in the best way possible. There was still fear in those movements, too, but it had turned from despair at the likelihood of failure to the need to prove that they had succeeded.

"Yeah," Spike said, cupping Wesley's face and devouring his mouth. "Right now. Anything you want, love. Everything. As long as it's you and me, I'm for it."

Wesley's eyes were bright with passion as he pulled back far enough to look at Spike's face. "Everything? This may take a while. First, I want - " he started, and Spike's skin tingled with anticipation, because it was never a bad thing when Wesley had a list of things he wanted them to do. Oh, no, never a bad thing at all.

Before Wesley could share his list, however, a loud, insistent yowl behind them made them both jump and pull back from the closed door. Spike glared at it, but Wesley's expression softened a fraction.

"She sounds upset," he said.

"She'll live."

"Very true." Wesley turned to Spike again. He reached for him, but another yowl interrupted whatever it was he was about to do.

"She's _fine_." Spike took a step toward him, but Wesley held him off with a sigh and a slightly furrowed brow.

"We rushed in here awfully quickly, and we've been out all day. Perhaps she needs a bit of attention before we shut ourselves away."

 _What if_ I _need a bit of attention_ , Spike was very tempted to ask. It'd been a rough day; both of them could have used a bit of care. " _Wesley_ , would you really rather stroke the cat than have me stroke you?" He licked his lower lip to emphasize his point.

Wesley's gaze dropped to Spike's mouth, and he swallowed. For a second it looked like he was going to forget the conversation entirely, but he replied, "Of course not. We _can_ do both."

"Not at the same bloody time."

"No," Wesley said with a surprised chuckle. "Definitely not."

As soon as Spike heard the laugh he knew the intensity of the mood had been broken. It was good that their fears were draining away, but he would have rather drained them with a good hard shag.

"Just give me a few minutes," Wesley promised, and he kissed Spike softly but with promise before opening the door. "I know you understand how important it is for her to be able to trust us."

Spike slumped against the wall and sighed. "Got a name for her," he grumbled to himself as Wesley scooped up the cat and cooed to her. "Cock-blocker."

*

"Come on, love, you can name the cat Mrs. Fluffikins for all I care, just stop teasing and bloody well _fuck_ me already!"

*

"Angelina," Spike said.

"Sappho," Wesley replied from the opposite seat on the couch.

"Scarlett."

"O'Hara?"

"Johansson."

"Perhaps Elizabeth after the first queen of that name."

"If we're going for royalty, I say Fergie. Always liked her, doing what she wasn't supposed to. Shook things up a bit. Besides, she's ginger like this one."

"Ginger or not, I wouldn't like to live with her," Wesley said, patting the cat as she blinked up at him from her seat on his lap. "And Queen Elizabeth the First was ginger as well."

"She used dye. Wasn't real."

Wesley lifted his brows and looked pointedly at Spike's own hair.

"Carol, then," Spike said.

"What?"

"Carol Burnett. She's ginger, too. Or Anne Robinson."

"The cat is nothing like that awful woman."

Spike could have disagreed with that, but he decided against it for the sake of keeping the conversation moving. "Lucille Ball."

"Hmm. Lucy?" Wesley smiled down at the cat.

"'Lucy, I'm home!'" Spike said in what he thought was a credible Cuban accent. "Could work."

Wesley winced and shook his head. "No, definitely not."

"Lizzie for Lizzie Borden? She was ginger."

"You want to name our cat after a murderer?"

" _I'm_ a murderer."

"It's hardly the same thing."

Spike's attention was drawn back to the flickering television screen. "Show's back on. Have to settle this later."

"All right," Wesley said and went back to his book as Spike un-muted the sound.

*

A soft touch on Spike's face brought him swimming up from the depths of sleep into a lighter doze. It was just a brush at his temple just below his hair line, but it was enough to make him stir.

"Mmm." He kept his eyes closed and turned slightly into the pillow. It was still dark in their bedroom, so it was early morning at the latest. Not time to get up.

The touch came again, this time on his cheek, and Spike wondered if Wesley was trying to wake him. Probably not, because he was usually much more direct than that, but sometimes he woke to Wesley watching him with this combination of puzzlement, concern, and joy in his eyes. Maybe the touches were an extension of that. After the day they'd had yesterday Wesley might have needed a bit of tactile reassurance that Spike was in fact still there.

Spike smiled a bit, his thoughts still muzzy and blurred. If Wesley wanted tactile reassurance he might be willing to help with that. He could go over and wrap himself up with that warm, strong body, doze for a little while, get more energetic for a bit, and doze some more. It sounded like a good idea, and he just need to roll over a few inches to -

Something whacked Spike's cheek hard enough to make a little slapping sound and a light but lasting sting.

"The hell?" He opened his eyes to see not Wesley looking at him dreamily but the cat standing between them - in the space she must have created because usually they slept close - glaring at Spike. She gave him an imperious chirp. "Bugger off."

"Hmm?" Wesley rolled over and squinted at the pair of them.

"Not you, love," Spike told him. "This one. She just hit me in the face."

"Did she use claws?"

Spike reached up to touch his face; it didn't hurt, but then he was pretty impervious to pain. His fingers came back dry. "No."

Wesley sighed and closed his eyes again. "She must be hungry."

"She's got that crunchy food in the kitchen."

"Mmm."

At least Wesley seemed inclined to ignore her in favor of sleep, so Spike gave her a warning look and rolled over onto his other side. He edged his feet back until they were touching Wesley's, since the cat was still between them at chest-level, and closed his eyes.

They wouldn't stay closed. He'd slept for a while, his body ached in odd places from the day's fights, and he'd been thinking happy thoughts about playing with Wesley's naked body. He wasn't going to sleep any time soon.

Still, he didn't want to get up. The clock said it was 3:53 am, and he'd be more damned than usual if he was going to get up before the ridiculously early hour of nine o'clock. So he lay there with his eyes open, listening to Wesley's breathing and the cat's soft purrs as she settled down between them.

His gaze was drawn to one of the books in the haphazard pile on his nightstand. Its spine was clear for his vision in the dim crimson glow of the alarm clock. He had just started re-reading the series; he was fairly certain he wasn't supposed to be rooting for Draco Malfoy, though, but that Harry was such a little prat.

A thought came to him like a lightning bolt from on high, only less likely to incinerate him.

"Wes, you still up?" he asked.

"Mm?"

That was good enough. "I've got a name for the cat."

"Now?"

"Good a time as any. Minerva."

Wesley didn't reply immediately. "I thought you didn't want a mythological name."

"I was thinking like McGonagall from _Harry Potter_ \- you know, head of Gryffindor, can turn into a cat - but that works, too."

"Hmm."

Spike waited for more of a reaction, but there was none forthcoming besides a soft snore. That was from the cat.

*

Spike awoke slowly to the very pleasant if familiar feeling of having Wesley pressed up against his back, surrounding him with his warmth and presence. Enjoying the weight of Wesley's arm across his waist, he took a slow breath in through his nose and held it, keeping his eyes closed. He was dimly aware that he still ached a bit and that there was sunlight edging around the window shades, but he ignored them; he was happy where he was.

As he dozed he became aware of a deep, rumbling purr. He turned his head and cracked his eyes open, and he found the cat standing on Wesley thigh and kneading his hip.

She looked over at him and squinted before transferring one of her front paws to _his_ hip and kneading the both of them in tandem. It wasn't the most level of perches, but she looked happy. Spike had to admit it _was_ kind of soothing.

"Good morning," Wesley murmured sleepily in Spike's ear.

"Morning, pet." Spike closed his eyes again. "She wake you up?"

"Who? Mrs. Fluffikins?"

Spike groaned. "You remember that, do you?"

"Mmm." Wesley kissed the side of Spike's throat. "You came up with the perfect name."

"Wasn't any blood in my brain; it was all somewhere else, thanks to you."

"You didn't seem to be complaining."

"No," Spike agreed. He pondered whether or not an excellent shag was worth having a cat with a stupid name and decided the shag still won.

Wesley tightened his arm around Spike's waist. "So she has a name, then."

"Suppose so."

"I think we should get it painted on her food dishes."

"Great idea," Spike said, turning his face further into the pillow and grimacing.

"And perhaps add her name to our mailbox."

Spike was never, ever going to be able to show his face in the building again. "Don't think she'll get much mail."

"Oh, we'll sign her up for catalogues. Luxury pet supplies, collars with her name spelled out in rhinestones."

"Great," Spike choked out.

"Only the best for our Minerva."

"Minerva?" Spike flipped onto his back so that he could see Wesley's grinning face, and the cat readjusted herself on them with a slightly offended air. Spike's every muscle relaxed with relief.

"It suits her, don't you think?" Wesley freed one arm from under the covers so that he could pat her head.

Spike gave the cat a good look over and nodded. "Yeah."

Wesley smiled at him and leaned over for a kiss. It lasted longer than Spike had expected, but they didn't dislodge the cat in the process. Maybe they were learning.

"Did you really think I would ever agree to Mrs. Fluffikins?" Wesley asked, settling his head back beside Spike's on the pillow.

"Maybe to spite me."

"I like you both far too much for that," Wesley said, scratching between Minerva's ears. "Besides, how would we tell if she's married?"


End file.
